


Diary of a Manhattan Call Boy

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Abuse, Canon, Drama, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-20
Updated: 2005-03-29
Packaged: 2018-12-27 06:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12075591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Brian doesn't come to find Justin when he runs away to New York in season 1. Justin tries to cope on his own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Justin doesn’t remember too much about the first time.

What he can remember is nothing surprising; a heavy weight on his back, slick sweaty skin, the stink of vomit and alcohol, an awkward lump in the mattress that pressed into his stomach through-out.

He doesn’t remember the man’s name, or his age, or the colour of his hair. He guesses the voice to have been low and deep, the touch to have been rough and inexperienced, but he’s not really sure.

He refused to kiss him, he remembers that, and he remembers what Sam said to him afterward.

“How very Pretty Woman of you.”

He remembers laughing.

Sam was in the room with him the first time, he knows that for certain. He remembers the sound of ‘Cops’ and Sam’s laughter over ugly grunting and the creak of mattress springs.

“If I’m there then I can make sure you don’t get hurt.” Sam explained to him before-hand, as Justin puked in the Motel shrubbery. He clapped Justin on the back and laughed. “Plus, I get to see you naked. Bonus.”

Sam’s seen him naked a thousand times now.

He can’t recall what he was thinking as that faceless, shapeless guy thrust in and out. Stupid crap probably. Stuff about Brian, and what his mom might think if she saw him like this. Maybe he wondered if the guy who’d driven a stolen car over two state lines would have to go to jail.

He remembers being worried about choking on his own vomit. Feeling the bile rising in the back of his throat and trying to swallow it down as quickly as possible. Panicking and struggling to buck the guy off so that he could make it to the bathroom, being pushed back down by firm hands that brooked no argument.

There was self-disgust after the man left. Two hours spent scrubbing in the bathtub, yelling the most hateful things he’s ever said at Sam through the locked door. The half-hour spent over the toilet bowl, fingers down his throat, until Sam managed to jimmy the lock and point ouut that if he kept losing his food he’d end up doing ‘this’ more often.

“I’ll go back to Pittsburgh,” he sobbed against Sam’s neck as they lay together on that horrible, filthy bed. His voice was hoarse from all the crying and shouting and throwing-up. His body felt fevered, hot and shivery, and he couldn’t stop it from shaking. 

He hadn’t cried like that since he was ten years old, he hasn’t cried like that since.

“I’ll make sure it’s better next time,” Sam had said, voice calm and soothing. It reminded Justin of being ill as a kid, having his mom taking care of him, comforting him with soft words and a cool touch.

“I could go back,” he insisted, but even to his own ears he sounded childish and unsure. He could smell the sex and sweat on the bed sheets, feel the familiar ache in his ass. In the bath he’d watched in disgusted fascination as finger-shaped bruises darkened on his hips, and he’d known then that there was no going back.

Sam kissed his damp hair, just like his mom used to. “It’ll be better next time,” he promised.

And it was.


	2. Diary of a Manhattan Call Boy

The second time Justin was high as a kite, and it had nothing to do with memory. 

He didn’t care about the man’s name or how old he said he was or the color of his fucking hair. Instead everything was about sensation.

The feel of rough brickwork biting into his palms, the steady hum of vibrations that various moans and groans sent along his skin. He counted the rhythm of the man’s thrusts in his head, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3 and found himself dancing along to it, moving his lower body in a way that made the man cry out, 1-2.

He was captivated by the play of light against the alley wall, the way it stretched and shifted in time with the writhing bodies surrounding him. He imagined that he was in control of it, that the roll of his shoulders pulled it closer, the twist of his fingers dragged it under his skin.

He remembers very little about actual sex that second time. There was dick up his ass, the ache the next morning and $40 in his back pocket vouched for that. But it freaked him out that a significant proportion of his memory was scarily blank.

“How much did I take?” he demanded of Sam the day after, “how much did you give me?”

Sam just shrugged and kissed his forehead, “enough to make it better.”

Justin spent the next day and a half obsessing over whether or not the guy had used a condom.

\-------------------------------

Justin never thought of Sam as his ‘pimp’.

Sam set up appointments and supplied the E. He taught Justin the rules of the hustle and the best places to work. In the beginning he stuck around to critique the finer points of Justin’s technique, “a little less teeth, relax your throat a bit and you’ll be able to- yeah, that’s it.”

He had an apartment above an x-rated video store on a street just off 8th avenue. It was tiny and smelled badly of Chinese take-out no matter what, but he let Justin share it.

“You’re my boy,” he said once as they lay curled up on the lumpy bed, passing a joint back and forth, “I’ll look out for you and you’ll look out for me.” 

Sam wasn’t much more than a boy himself. He’d just turned 20 when they first met, although the shadows around his face and the tiredness in his eyes had made him seem older. He was taller than Justin, with a head of untamable black curls and dark brown eyes that made his skin look almost sickly pale.

They met in a run-down diner at 2am. Justin, the credit cards he’d ‘borrowed’ finally cancelled, was trying to make a rapidly-cooling mug of coffee and truly disgusting cheese sandwich last all night when skinny body flopped down beside him.

“Rough night?”

He spoke with a thick New York accent, like most of the other hustlers, that Justin at first tried to imitate. He’d sounded like he was gargling phlegm- not very attractive, and given up.

“Here,” the guy said, pushing a fresh mug towards him and smiling. Justin had accepted it suspiciously, was this a pick-up? The guy was quite handsome, he could do worse, and he did need somewhere to stay for the night…

“I’m a hustler,” Sam announced boldly the next morning over a breakfast of stale donuts. Justin choked on his mouthful of krispy kreme. “I’m not askin’ you to pay or nothin’,” Sam clarified, seeing the look on Justin’s face, “I just thought maybe you’d be interested in…”

“What?”

Sam seemed to change the topic of conversation completely, “why’d you let me fuck you last night?”

Justin was glad he hadn’t taken another bite of his food. “I, uh…” he trailed off, confused at how to answer.

“You wanted somewhere to stay,” Sam answered for him, voice almost smug, “that’s what I do, exchange sex for stuff I need.”

Justin’s stomach dropped and he began to look for his shirt, pulling it on hastily, he didn’t like where this was going at all. “I’m leaving now.”

Sam followed him to the door, a strangely eager smile on his face as he reached out to touch Justin’s arm, “we could do this together, it’s not that hard. I know you don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Glaring, Justin pulled his arm away and stormed out. When he slammed the door a chunk of plaster fell out of the wall.

He spent the rest of the day wandering in and out of stores looking at things he couldn’t afford. At about midday his stomach started rumbling and he checked his wallet, enough to buy lunch or make a phone call home, not for both.

He bought a hot dog from a street vendor.

That night he tried to sleep in some shop doorway and was bugged endlessly by a little kid of about 14.

“Got any spare change mister?”

“No. Go away.”

“C’mon, just a couple of dollars. You look like you can afford it.”

“If I had a couple of dollars I wouldn’t be sleeping here.”

“…I like your jacket.”

“Thank you. Now fuck off!”

“Would you pay me if I gave you a blowjob?”

After the kid proved he would not be deterred by an hour of petty arguments and feigned sleep Justin got up and tried to find somewhere else.

By 3.30 a.m. he’d been trailed by a police car for 2 blocks, offered pot, crack, and sex with a middle-aged transvestite and lost a shoe. He hated New York.

Cold, tired and shoeless he made his way back to 8th avenue and knocked on the door of Sam’s apartment.

Sam opened the door with a smile.

\------------------------------------

There were times when he hated Sam. Blamed him for everything that had gone wrong, for what he’d become. 

There were times when Sam hated him. Called him whiney and melodramatic and a pain in the ass.

There were days when they never spoke, never saw each other or remained silent when they did. Like the time Sam said words that Justin never thought he wouldn’t want to hear.

“I love you.”

A tender confession, spilled out in the silent darkness of their bedroom. Justin tensed, pulled away and listened to Sam sigh and get up. He thought about the last time he’d said those words, about a man who seemed to have forgotten all about him, and he fell asleep to troubled dreams.

But there were other days. Days when Sam took him to art galleries, to dinner and matinee shows on Broadway. When they laughed and kissed and fucked all night long. And Justin thought that maybe, given a few years, he might just-

Things changed.

He didn’t recognize it at first, the jealousy. He’d thought Sam was proud of him. He was getting popular, making a name for himself with the commuters around Times Square. But Sam grew distant.

“It won’t last,” he said after some trick paid Justin $50 to suck him off. “In a few weeks you’ll be yesterday’s news.”

Giving Justin a bitter look, he downed the rest of his beer and stomped out the bar. Returning to their apartment the next day with an embarrassed smile and hesitant apology.

Things are shaky at best after that.

And then one day Sam broke his own rules. 

It was rush hour and they were working the area around Port Authority bus terminal. Some guy came up to Justin and started to talk. He was good-looking, tall, dark-haired, wearing a designer fitted-suit and a rolex.

“I’ll pay you $500,” he said, “500 bucks if you’ll come back to my place.”

Justin lounged against a wall and fiddled with the collar of his too-small shirt, “that’s a lot of money. What else do you want?”

The guy smiled, tugged at the scarf around his neck, “how do you feel about asphyxiation?” he asked.

Justin smirked and opened his mouth to answer when-

“I love it,” Sam purred, winding an arm around the john’s waist. Justin glared. Rule number one; you don’t interrupt a guy when he’s got something going with a trick.

The man looked at Sam and smiled, “come with me then.”

They started to walk away, so Justin followed them. “Sam,” he hissed, “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Sam paused slightly, turned to look over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t wait up,” he shrugged and carried on walking.

Justin stood gaping on the sidewalk, before stamping back to work. He told himself he didn’t care when Sam didn’t come home that night.

It turned out to be the best thing Sam ever did for him, because 3 days later Sam still doesn't return, and 2 days after that some kids find his body in a dumpster on 7th avenue.


	3. Diary of a Manhattan Call Boy

Justin doesn’t bother going to Sam’s funeral. Instead he hangs around the meat rack and makes $1,000 in six hours.

Two more bodies have been found in the last week and the hustlers are getting scared. “Don’t get into their cars,” they parrot to each other again and again, “don’t go out alone.” They huddle together on street corners and in alleyways gazing at passing cars with narrow-eyed suspicion. 

But Justin is not afraid. 

He knows who to look out for, trusts his own instincts. He is smart and he can see this opportunity that Sam has given him. He takes his risks and reaps the benefits, because he knows whom to fear.

“I should go to the cops,” he says to his new roommate as they wait at the bus terminal sharing a cigarette.

“Don’t be dumb,” Ricky laughs. He is young and blond and prettier than Justin, with big blue eyes and a round, innocent face. “They’ll arrest you for fucking soliciting or whatever before you can even give them a fucking description.”

Ricky does not trust people as easily as Justin does. He’s a squealing drama queen with a persecution complex a mile wide. The world is out to get Ricky it seems, and he must always be prepared.

“But I could stop this,” Justin says sadly, because the extra money in his pockets does not stop the guilt pressing down on his chest. 

Ricky shrugs and says nothing.

\------------------------

Justin thinks about Sam a lot. 

When he lets Ricky fuck him he finds himself comparing it to the way Sam would have done it, much the way he used to think about Brian when Sam was inside him. 

Ricky is louder and less experienced than both Sam and Brian. His fingers fumble over buttons and zippers and flesh and he never lasts very long. “Fuck!” he screams into Justin’s ears, “Oh God, right there, right there!” and Justin finds himself missing soft whispers and muffled groans. 

He thinks he may have loved Sam after all.

\------------------------

At night Justin dreams that he was the one to find Sam.

He imagines getting fucked against that dumpster, can almost feel warm skin against his ass and cool metal on his dick. The guy slams into him, crushing his face hard into the side until he cranes his neck upwards and looks into the trash. Then he sees Sam.

The only dead body Justin’s ever seen was his Great Grandma slumped thin and pasty in her hospital bed. She was small and ugly, a shell. Sam isn’t like that.

Justin pictures him as beautiful, an elegant sprawl of pale, graceful limbs and startling tangle of sooty black hair. His skin has a slightly blue tinge and it fascinates him. He wants to see it, press his body against Sams and compare it to his own.

He hooks an arm over the side of the dumpster, jagged edge digging into the muscle, and touches Sam’s cheek. The skin is smooth under his fingers, just like always, with the slightest hint of stubble. It isn’t cold; feels just the same as the air on his face and bare thighs, no body heat. Sam’s mouth is open, forming a small black ‘o’ and his lips are almost purple. Justin stretches and runs his fingertips along those too, soft and full but there’s no warm breath against his hand.

“Go,” he tells the trick, “leave me alone.” And, because this is Justin’s fantasy, the trick departs with little protest and the press of a $50 bill into his jacket pocket.

Justin doesn’t bother to pull up his jeans, just leans over further and pushes gently at Sam’s chin. His head rolls back easily and Justin stares at the marks.

He remembers the scarf draped gracefully around the john’s neck, shimmering, expensive material, glamorous and dignified. But the newspaper Justin read said that it was just a piece of ordinary rope, so he chooses to imagine sharp indigo bruises on Sam’s throat, the twists of the cord leaving shallow indents engraved into his skin.

He does not panic or cry, like he did when Ricky first told him, just stands calmly stroking the side of Sams face. His eyes are shut and Justin can almost imagine he’s sleeping, feels the bizarre urge to climb into the dumpster and lay down next to him.

“I love you,” he imagines saying. But he wakes up instead. 

\------------------------

Five boys die and then the murders stop. 

The hustlers are the first to forget, venturing out alone after a fortnight, and soon the police seem to give up, stop patrolling back alleys and asking awkward questions. It doesn’t take long for Justin to forget either, for the dreams and bittersweet memories to lose their importance. Sometimes he finds himself sketching a beautiful, raven-haired boy, but he just smiles and doesn’t think about what could have been.

What is, is fine. He and Ricky discover they can make up to three times their normal wage if they work together. They’ve long given up on being lovers and instead settled into a surprisingly easy friendship, which makes the threesomes almost funny and strangely incestuous. 

The first time they make $300, and celebrate by buying a tub of Ben and Jerry’s and some slightly up-market pot. They sit on the couch smoking weed and eating ice cream, entertaining each other with their best fake moans and compliments and dissolving into fits of giggles as they each become louder and more outrageous.

“Ohh,” Ricky simpers, “that’s it baby, you’re so big, so thick! Fuck, no-one’s ever filled me up this way before!”

Justin falls onto the floor, laughing and choking on smoke. The sight of Ricky in baggy flannel pyjamas faking orgasm as he reads Cosmopolitan is too much for Justin’s drug-giddy brain and he laughs until tears roll down his cheeks. He is happy.

If he were more like Ricky then he would realize that things were going far too well.

\------------------------

In February Justin becomes homesick. 

He sees a poster in a coffee shop window not far from his apartment, ‘Missing: Justin Taylor’ with a short description, blurred school photograph and, surprisingly, Brian’s telephone number. He stands outside and stares at it for a long time, before he finally goes in and orders a muffin, ripping the notice down while the waitress is distracted and shoving it in his coat pocket.

Later he shows it to Ricky who cracks some lame joke about his school uniform and then sulks when Justin doesn’t laugh. He flounces out, spewing threats Justin doesn’t listen to and leaving Justin staring at this tattered bit of paper.

They still care about him, he realises slowly, and they want to know if he’s okay. 

He thinks about calling Brian, telling them all what he’s been doing, “oh, you know, selling my ass for 40 bucks a ride, withholding evidence from the cops, faking orgasms with my hustler roommate.” He can imagine their disgust and their pity, wonders how much they’d care then. 

He throws the poster in the trash, goes out and finds a willing trick, then steadily drinks away his payment through till dawn. 

When he returns home Ricky is cooking breakfast with a forced, brittle smile that cracks as soon as Justin vomits over the living room carpet.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Ricky screeches, towering above him, hands on hips as Justin wretches again and again. “I’m not fucking cleaning that up you fucking asshole. I’m fed up of cleaning up your fucking mess, you--” thankfully Justin passes out halfway through his sentence and wakes up later in their cool, dark bedroom. He presses his body tight against Ricky’s skinny frame, feeling sharp hipbones and elbows press into his skin and bruise bone.

Ricky’s like the brother he never had, funny and sweet and completely annoying at times. He remembers Molly, who he may never see grown up, and thinks about crying, but doesn’t.

\------------------------

Justin is irrationally paranoid that if he calls Brian from anywhere near his apartment he will one day come home to find Brian sitting on his doorstep. So instead he takes the subway down to 14th street every Sunday and listens to Brian swear and threaten for a few minutes. Justin never says anything.

Afterward he hangs out around the meatpacking district and earns enough to pay for his journey home. This way, he reasons, if Brian does ever try to track down the guy who calls him at 4.30 on Sunday afternoons and says nothing, then he wont find Justin.

\------------------------

When spring turns to summer and the air in New York is so thick with sweat and exhaust fumes Justin thinks he could choke, Ricky tries to commit suicide. He isn’t very successful.

He’s sitting fully clothed in the bath completely shit-faced and bawling like a baby when Justin returns home early one morning.

“Why the fuck don’t we have any knives?” he asks as Justin hauls him out of the freezing cold water, “and where the fuck did all the painkillers go? You’re such a fucking addict!” He gives Justin a shove that’s probably meant to be painful and then promptly bursts into tears again.

Even for Ricky, this isn’t normal behaviour.

“What the fuck is going on?” Justin asks. He’s achy and covered in someone else’s sweat, it’s 5.30 am and he’s still a little tweaked from the E he took earlier, he cannot deal with one of Ricky’s moods right now.

“Nobody cares,” Ricky wails, tumbling to the floor in a melodramatic heap. “Nobody fucking cares about me.”

Justin rolls his eyes and pulls the plug out of the bathtub, “are you high?” 

Ricky scowls up at him with predictably glazed eyes, “you’re one to fucking talk,” he spits, “when are you not high?”

“Get up off the floor,” Justin says, kicking him lightly in the ribs, “stop being such a drama queen.”

He receives a furious glare, “drama queen?” Ricky demands, “drama queen? I just spent the whole night trying to kill myself and you call me a fucking drama queen?”

Justin has to bite his bottom lip to keep from pointing out that if Ricky looked in the bathroom cabinet he’d find a brand new packet of razors, or that he could just have stuck his head underwater for a few minutes if he really wanted to go through with it. He’s not in the best of moods.

He sighs and slumps down on the floor, fingers reaching out to comb through long blond hair so much like his own. “I care about you,” he says and knows what will happen.

They don’t know about love, not really, and they’ve forgotten the feel of simple, friendly affection. They know about sex, about saying things with their bodies that they can’t understand through words. 

They rut on the bathroom floor, the cool linoleum growing warm and sticky under Justin’s back. It’s not good sex, it’s rough and unprepared, Ricky’s skin is damp and clammy, not pleasant to the touch, and Justin feels tired and dizzy, strangely distanced from what they’re doing.

They don’t kiss. Ricky buries his face in Justin’s neck and bites down hard on the delicate skin and the movement of his head keeps knocking against Justin’s chin, jarring his jaw.

They’re silent, spare a few moans and the slap of skin against skin, skin against floor.

It doesn’t take long for Ricky to come. Justin listens as his breathing becomes heavier, as the movement of his hips speed up and he thrusts down harder. Just before his climax he looks up and meets Justin’s gaze, there’s goodbye in his eyes.

Sure enough, when Justin wakes next afternoon Ricky is gone. He’s hitching a lift to L.A. the note on the kitchen counter says, he wants to make it big, be a star. Justin wonders if Ricky will ever be happy.

\------------------------

The next Sunday Justin makes his regular phone call to Brian.

“Kinney,” comes the expected gruff answer.

Justin hesitates and there’s a knot in his stomach. “…Brian?”

There’s a small pause, “who is this?” and Justin slams down the phone so violently it rattles off it’s holder, swinging in circles by his knees.

He returns to his empty apartment and tries not to cry. He doesn’t remember, Brian doesn’t know who he is. He can hear Ricky’s voice in his head, “nobody cares” and wonders if it’s true for him now too. Balling his fists against his eyes he breathes deep gets dressed and goes out to make as much money as he can.

\------------------------

He told himself he wouldn’t come this Sunday. He lied.

He’s got a trick waiting by the phone booth with him. He’s going to call, hang up and go earn this months rent money. That’s the plan.

“I’ll only be a minute,” he says, and the man smiles patiently.

Justin picks up the receiver and stares at it for a long time. Finally he dials a familiar number.

“What do you want?”  
“Does mom know you’re answering the phone like that Mollusc?” he teases and listens delightedly to the little girl gasp. She remembers him.

“Justin?”

“Hey Mol,” he smiles, “how’ve you been?”

She doesn’t answer his question, but instead launches into a round of her own. “Where are you Justin? When are you coming home?”

He hesitates and bites his lip, chooses the truth, “I don’t know.”

“I miss you,” her voice is strangely solemn and he feels something inside him swell. This is love.

“I miss you too,” he replies softly, and then freezes as a hand grabs his ass. The forgotten trick.

The man presses himself up against Justin, hard cock pressing into the small of his back. Justin almost drops the phone. He’s talking to his little sister as some guy palms his dick through his jeans. In a minute he’s going to hang up this phone and go have sex with some guy for money. He imagines her somehow seeing all this through the phone line and the shame washes over him again.

“I love you Mol,” he says, and hangs up before she can reply. 

Then he lets the man lead him behind a stack of wooden crates.


	4. Diary of a Manhattan Call Boy

The next Sunday Justin makes sure to keep busy.

He’s been jumpy all week, on the lookout for familiar faces. There have been no new posters, no rumors of a WASP-ish blonde scouring Chelsea, and he’s kinda relieved, if a little disappointed. Still, he doesn’t trust himself not to screw-up somehow.

He goes food shopping in the morning, sketching in the park at lunch and then on a disastrously dull mid-afternoon dinner date which he ends abruptly by telling the guy he charges by the hour just after he finishes his apple pie. It’s a free meal.

In the evening he heads down to a club, because it’s better than sitting at home alone and thinking. The music’s loud and the lighting’s dim and it’s packed with people he knows, by sight at least. It feels good, to dance and smile and get free drinks.

Later he heads to the backroom with the sort of guy he hates: short and old and under-confident. Justin didn’t get a good look at his face, didn’t really bother, but the cheek he brushes up against Justin’s neck is scratchy with stubble and he thinks there’s gonna be a rash there later. His hands are small but pudgy and they dig into Justin’s stomach, just above his hipbone. Every once in a while they slip down and pinch too hard, leaving a snail-trail of sweat in their wake. The third time it happens Justin stomps on the trick’s foot –hard- because, seriously, he needs to cut his nails.

Justin’s kept his jeans on and sweaty-hands is just grinding against them, not even too hard. His fingers are tucked just under the waistband and they pull it a little too tight, cutting a groove into Justin’s stomach whenever he’s pushed forward by a particularly energetic thrust. When Justin winces the guy jerks suddenly and starts muttering, it’s stupid, generic stuff about how hot this is and how much Justin obviously likes it, which makes Justin want to laugh since his dick isn’t showing a hint of interest. 

It’s sort of sad really, this john going crazy about rubbing up against his jeans when all around them guys are sucking and fucking and all that other shit. He’s paying the same rate too, and saving Justin a condom, which is cool. All Justin has to do is stay upright –a little hard after the shots he had earlier, but not impossible- and move his hips a little. Easy money.

It’s barely been five minutes and already the guy’s starting to lose his rhythm, fingers tightening and skidding over Justin’s sweaty skin and the band of his underwear, panting hot, stale air into his ear. Justin wriggles his hips to try and speed this up a little because, really, even five minutes of this heavy body against his back and those fat, prodding fingers is way too long. The air in the backroom is dank and humid, his t-shirt is wet with sweat and uncomfortably tight and there’s dirty hair in his eyes. He just wants to beg another bump off Jason and maybe dance for a while. Yeah, dancing would be fun.

Unfortunately, before he can close the deal and get the hell out, Jason comes to find him. 

Justin hears him before he can see him. His sharp yell is clear over the general undertone of moans and groans, and he reaches Justin quickly, face dripping with sweat and breathing hard. Jason’s an okay guy, pretty indistinctive, just one of the many hustlers that seem to swarm around this place at weekends. Like a lot of the other hustlers he’s into recreational drugs and even in the dim light Justin can see that Jason’s normally pale eyes are suspiciously dark and glazed. He puts it down to a bad trip that Jason seems so frantic.

“Justin!” he keeps saying, “Justin! Justin!” As if maybe Justin didn’t hear him the first fifty times.

Sweaty-hands has stopped moving completely, clearly interested in whatever drama’s about to unfold. Justin inwardly curses Jason because what’s it gonna take now? Another five minutes? He jerks rather unsubtly to try and get the trick moving again, but the guy’s fingers just grip fucking harder and he keeps watching Jason like some fucking TV set.

Finally it seems as if Jason’s brain’s caught up with his mouth and he starts explaining, words slurring together as he rushes them out. “There are some guys out front, looking- looking for you. They asked me- they’ve got, um, pictures, pictures of you.”

Justin freezes.

The trick pulls away and begins to back off, probably guessing cops or some pimp, neither of which are a good idea to stick around for. 

Justin can’t move. He stands, staring at Jason, his heart thudding hard in his chest. Brian, he thinks, Brian, Brian, Brian. It’s got to be.

“Who-“ he says finally, then stops “wha-,” but that doesn’t seem right either. “Did he say who he was?”

Jason shakes his head, sweaty clumps of hair flapping around his face. “No,” he says and Justin knows he’s thinking danger, drug dealer or P.I., because normal people don’t visit clubs asking after two a penny street hustlers. But Brian isn’t normal. “There were two,” Jason adds, because he’s a nice guy and wants to be helpful, “short and dark, tall and dark, they had these, like, photos of you. You were in a school uniform and-“

Michael. Brian and Michael. Oh, shit.

“Oh, shit!” Justin says out-loud, and he wants to kick the wall or possibly Jason, which isn’t really fair since he was just trying to do the right thing and all. “Shit,” he says again, “shit, shit, shit!”

Brian. And Michael. Here. Looking for him. And he doesn’t know what to make of that.

He does know that it’s not good. 

“I’ve gotta get out of here,” he says, and Jason nods, grabbing hold of his wrist and tugging him through the mass of writhing, oblivious bodies and to the very back door. He pushes it open with a grunt and they spill out into a dead-end alleyway.

It’s a cold night and the slick sheen of sweat covering Justin is suddenly freezing. He shivers.

The alley is well lit, but he’s on edge. Some guy was buying him tequila earlier and he can feel it swirling sickeningly in his stomach, his heart is still pounding hard and too fast and that E he took an hour ago doesn’t seem to have worn off as well as he thought. He swears the shadows are moving. It doesn’t help any that Jason’s hand is shaking in his.

“Let’s go,” Justin says, and his voice is small and breathless against the backdrop of traffic and music from inside. Jason nods again and for reasons Justin isn’t quite sure of they set off at a run. 

His head feels light with panic and adrenalin, and he’s not really thinking much as they sprint up the alleyway and round the corner of the club. He keeps his eyes on the sidewalk, watching his feet hit the cement, which turns out to be a really stupid idea.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” 

It’s too late and his body collides with something solid, sending him sprawling on his ass, looking up into a very familiar face.

“Michael!”

Dark eyes, dark hair, expression of complete and utter shock. Fuck.

Justin can imagine how he must look. Too small t-shirt, too small jeans, flushed sweaty face and glazed eyes, hair a few shades darker because his fucking landlord’s too cheap to pay the bills this month and so he hasn’t washed it in… way too long. The greenish bruise along his right cheekbone probably doesn’t look too good either.

“Justin?” Michael asks, his mouth hanging open, and that would be really fucking funny if it wasn’t happening right now.

They just stare at each other, until there’s a painful tug on Justin’s arm and Jason’s pulling him up. Michael opens his mouth to say something and Justin’s sense of reality kicks back in. They start running again.

He can hear Michael behind them, footsteps heavy and too slow. “Justin!” he yells, “Stop! Come back!”

Justin doesn’t.

\----------------------

They run five blocks and by the time they reach Justin’s apartment he doesn’t want to go inside.

“I can’t,” he says, still drawing big gasps of air, “they’ll find me, they’re gonna find me.”

Jason just nods. He hasn’t asked who ‘they’ are and Justin knows he wont. It’s a rule. If someone wants to tell you they’ll tell you. Justin learnt that the hard way.

“You’re gonna need clothes,” Jason says logically after a couple of minutes spent watching the road warily, as if at any moment Michael might pull up and force them into his car or something. “Just pack some shit you’ll need and you can come stay with me.”

They climb up the fire escape because Justin’s landlord has ultrasonic hearing and demands rent every time Justin passes his door. 

His apartment’s pretty easy to break into, which would worry Justin if he had anything of actual value. He always leaves the bathroom window open, so he and Jason clamber through into the bathtub, and while Jason takes a piss, Justin starts shoving clothes into a large black plastic bag.

The apartment’s pretty bare. It always was, even when it was Sam’s. A kitchen, living room and bedroom all lumped into one, with a tiny bathroom off to the side. He’s hung a few sketches on the walls, no Brian or Sam or anything familiar like that, just random people and places. He doesn’t bother to take them down; he’ll be back in a few days anyway. He just concentrates on the clothes tossed over the bed and floor –no closet- and the slim roll of $20 bills hidden under a loose kitchen tile, which seem to have mysteriously disappeared, probably thanks to his ultrasonic, stingy landlord.

The whole bag takes around two minutes to pack and he’s still worried that at any minute the door’s gonna burst open to reveal Brian and Michael, furiously demanding the however many thousands of dollars he spent on plane fare and that stupid hotel room. His hands are still shaking as he grabs a jacket and ties a knot in the top of the bag before heading out to join Jason back on the fire escape.

Jason smiles and he seems to have calmed down, eyes still bright but paler somehow. The light gray is clearer around his pupils.

It’s gonna be okay.

\----------------------

Jason has a girlfriend and Jason’s girlfriend is, in Justin’s opinion, a fucking psycho.

She takes one look at Justin and slams the door in his face.

After spending the night listening to Jason beg and cajole through the locked door, and his girlfriend scream and throw things, Justin decides this isn’t going to work. He tells Jason, “thanks, but no thanks,” and leaves. Quickly.

\----------------------

After an hour or so of aimless, albeit cautious, wandering, trying to decide if he can afford to catch the subway maybe to somewhere new, like Brooklyn, or out of fucking New York city altogether he finds out that his entire worldly worth comes to a measly $13, plus change. 

With a sigh and a kick at a particularly annoying garbage bin, he hitches the sack further up his shoulder and sets off to buy a cheap donuts and try to charm his way into a position on somebody’s couch.

\----------------------

He ends up staying with Lance, who’s a complete space-case with an apartment full of creepy Nazi memorabilia. 

Lance’s apartment is also full of about five other boy-hustlers, so Justin finds himself sharing a small space of uncomfortable carpet because, apparently, an ‘incident’ resulting in a large tarpaulin-covered hole in the floor and several angry phone calls from the downstairs neighbors, destroyed Lance’s couch.

It’s okay though, really. The floor’s alright with a lumpy cushion or two, and Justin doesn’t really spend too much time sleeping there anyway. It’s nice having the other guys around to talk to and go out with and to help throw things at Lance after he smokes pot and starts spouting his own brand of philosophical crap at 3 am. Justin hated how quiet it was after Ricky left.

His days are pretty dull. What with hididng out from Brian and Michael and everyone he ever used to know and all.

He hates Lance’s apartment during the daytime, with it’s display cases full of vintage handguns and the framed photograph of Hitler where the television should be.

Justin takes to hanging around shady areas in parks and sketching random shit. More often than not he ends up drawing Brian, of course. Brian’s mouth, Brian’s eyes, Brian’s dick. Sometimes he sketches Debbie, having fun coming up with different filthy slogans to stretch across her T-shirts. Pages full of Molly, Michael, Daphne, Emmett, his mother, Chris from school; because he was always kinda hot, despite being a complete asshole. When he’s done he pins them up in Lance’s apartment, because there’s only so much World War II propaganda he can stand.

Other days he goes shopping with the guys. They seem to love sauntering around the fancy stores, drooling over the designer shoes and latest electronics. Justin hates it. He sulks around after them, glaring at all those expensive shiny things and coveting them angrily. 

He mentions this to one of the guys –Jake- who shrugs and says, “if you want it, take it,” before shoving a pair of sunglasses down his sleeve and glancing around for the store detective.

The one time Justin tries though, he hears his mom and her anti-stealing lecture in his head and gives up.

\----------------------

This sneaky, truly boring routine lasts for two weeks. There are new posters, apparantly loads have been put up in the café just down the street from Justin’s apartment, and three of the guys say they’ve had someone sounding very much like Michael bug them about the location of Justin Taylor. 

They tease him about his school uniform. He doesn’t laugh.

Justin’s never been a very social person and by the end of the first week he’s ready to kill these loud, stupid kids with their constant fighting and bitching and fucking drama. There’s always someone awake, no matter what time of the day or night, fidgeting, listening to music, asking Justin questions because he almost finished high school –private high school- and does, therefore, know everything. And so he shouts, and sulks and makes stuff up just to get some fucking sleep, which doesn’t work because they just shout back or laugh or ask a dozen other questions and this is why he never had other friends in high school, thank God.

After four days, during which no one has seen Michael, talked to Michael, heard even the vaguest piece of information regarding Michael, Justin decides that Michael and Brian have gone home and that he can, in fact, return home too. 

So that’s what he does. And then he sleeps for 16 hours straight.

\----------------------

After that things return pretty much to ‘normal’.

Sometimes he wonders if he’d ‘turned himself in’, whether Brian was be as mad as he thinks. But he stops after a while, because it’s dumb to think about things when you’re not going to get any answers and puzzling out the different scenarios makes his head hurt.

He takes on a job as a waiter at a local Bistro to help pass the time during the day and earn a little extra money. He’s constantly late and gets fired after a week for taking time off his shifts to meet with johns in the bathroom.

Justin takes to spending the daytime like a lot of the others do. He sleeps late then heads down to the basement peepshows. They don’t like hustlers hanging around because of the cops and shit, but if he’s discreet and buys something every once in a while they don’t seem to mind.

More often than not there’ll be some well-oiled man in a polyester business suit skulking around the bondage section. He makes cheap, no-fuss porn movies in an old nightclub just a few blocks away and pays quite well, considering, around $50 a film. Currently Justin’s appeared in two, with small roles such as ‘twink #2’ and ‘1st cocksucker’. They’re pretty alright so long as he tries not to think about guys watching them.

He heads back to change his clothes and grab a bite to eat around 4 o’clock everyday. If everyone’s working they’ll work together in the busier areas, like Port Authority. On nights when he’s alone Justin sticks to clubs and bars, where there aren’t as many clients, but far less chances of getting into trouble he can’t handle.

Friday and Saturday nights are always the busiest, so Sundays are slow, with long lie-ins and sometimes an afternoon group trip to the movies. They share popcorn and sodas and argue loudly in the lobby about what film to see. Lance can’t concentrate on a plot for more than 5 minutes and Jake likes to throw popcorn at random people he doesn’t like the look of. The way home will be spent mocking dialogue and moaning about unrealistic sex scenes. It’s the best part of Justin’s week.

On Tuesday Justin follows his usual routine, eating with Jason at a little Mexican place that makes great nachos before they head off to Port Authority together.

Tuesdays are typically slow and none of the smart, busy executives seem to be particularly interested in a skinny blond boy dressed in faded jeans and a fishnet shirt hanging out by the railings. Takings are slow and he’s made $25 in the last two hours.

Normally a night like this would be truly crappy and depressing. It’s cold and it rained earlier so there’s no where to sit down without getting his ass soaked. But Jason dragged him into a public bathroom a few minutes earlier and waved a small baggie of white powder in his face; coke. They snorted it together in one of the stalls and Justin’s been feeling great ever since.

So here he is, laughing and joking with Jason, freezing his balls off and yelling at cars.

“Hey Mister, you looking for a good time?”

They’re corny, trashy words that sound dumb when said in a regular voice, away from flashing neon lights and a dozen other young boys in tight, tiny clothes.

Fortunately, even the ordinary yellow car headlights are exciting tonight and there are some boys just up the street yelling in Spanish, which seems so beautiful surrounded by the boring humming of cars and people and a million other things that make sure New York is never silent. Justin imagines peoples words spilling out of their mouths in technicolor, like in comic books, the dull blacks and grays of executive speech, his own words in hot pink and red, and the gorgeous, magical Spanish in glittering gold floating up into the sky. He doesn’t understand why Jason laughs when he tries to explain this.

On his third attempt to get Jason to understand , a car pulls up infront of them.

It’s a large, sleek black thing that Justin’s sure he’s seen circling the block before. The windows are tinted and the tires are huge and thick. It waits, motor purring, until Jason pushes Justin forward to approach.

Normally, Justin would ask the guy to roll down the window.

Normally, he would demand payment upfront.

Normally, he’d tell someone where he was heading.

Normally he wouldn’t be completely out of his depth, high on cocaine.

He opens the back door and gets in. 

It’s big inside with soft, gray leather interior and that fresh new-car smell. He closes the door and the hears locks click. That’s when he starts to realise he might be in trouble.

He knows he’s in trouble when the driver turns round to look at him.

Fucking Michael.

* * *

I blame any spelling mistakes in this chapter firmly upon Microsoft Word, which has chosen to abuse me with threatening error messages. I should not be made to think on my own. It isn't right.


	5. Diary of a Manhattan Call Boy

Thanks so much to everyone who left feedback- this chapter has been a (very ;) long time coming but I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

There’s a long and rather pointless silence.

“Hi,” Michael says. Justin wants to punch him.

“Let me go,” he says instead, and tugs rather futilely at the door handle.

Michael watches him struggle for a few minutes, an expression on his face that might be amusement if he didn’t look so damn hangdog all the time. “Child-proof locks,” he finally chimes in oh-so-helpfully. Justin debates the merits of kicking Michael’s ass.

“If you don’t let me out of this fucking car right now,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “I’ll scream rape so fucking loud—do you really want the cops to catch you keeping a hooker hostage?”

Michael doesn’t say anything, which is probably best. Out the window he can see Jason running a flirtatious hand up the arm of a man in a classy business suit. Justin thinks he might be close to having a heart attack.

 

“He said he’d be here by now,” Michael says, glancing at a watch that looks far too nice for him to have chosen himself.

Alone on the back seat, Justin rolls his eyes. They’ve been sitting in silence for the last twenty minutes following Michael’s two failed attempts to start conversation. Forgive Justin for being rude but ‘what he’s been up to recently’ and ‘what he wants to do when he gets home’ are not things he wants to talk, or think, about right now. What he does want is a fucking cigarette. Or maybe another hit.

He can feel the coke wearing off and it’s making him fidget. His pounding heart has calmed down slightly but he’s still twitchy. Michael has some crappy trance station on and it’s making his head swim. He hopes he pukes over Michael’s leather seats.

The front passenger door opens suddenly and Justin jumps, heart catching in his throat. 

“Brian,” Michael says, sounding his relieved, and there he is, the first time Justin’s seen him in a year, looking fucking perfect of course. Asshole.

Justin can’t help staring and Brian stares straight back, unashamed. Justin searches for something to say and comes up blank. He can feel himself shrinking under Brian’s cool gaze, sweat pooling across his skin and clothes growing dirtier by the second.

“Let’s go,” Brian says, looking away and slamming the door closed.

 

The ride to Brian and Michael’s hotel passes in an abstract coming-down haze.

He can hear raised voices just in front of him but he’s too depressed and pissed-off to really care what they’re saying. Mostly he just watches the bright lights of upper Chelsea flicker past the window and wishes he were somewhere else.

 

Brian helps him out of the car and up to the suite, which is nice.

He still smells of the same cologne and faded cigarette smoke, and he’s reassuringly warm and solid and _there_ , with his arm around Justin’s shoulders. It’s comfortable enough that Justin can ignore the disgusted look the clerk at the desk shoots them when he sees Justin and his fishnet shirt and uncooperative legs.

The suite is everything Justin expected. Bare and free of any tasteless things like personality. It’s scrupulously tidy and Justin doesn’t really take it in. He’s seen enough hotel rooms to last him a lifetime.

He collapses on the white leather sofa and doesn’t bother to listen to Michael and Brian’s quiet conversation. After a while he hears a door close softly and a heavy towel hits him in the face.

“Go shower,” Brian says, and Justin can hear nothing in his voice.

-

He scrubs like he hasn’t had a proper wash in weeks. Which he hasn’t really, now that he thinks about it.

The water is warm and the hotel soap is soft and sweet smelling. He lathers Brian’s expensive shampoo in his hair and sings an old song he can’t quite remember. His voice sounds different from how it used to.

The subtle lighting in the bathroom is still too bright for his trip-weary eyes. He combs his hair in front of the wide mirror and doesn’t let his gaze stray too long on the ugly grooves of his ribs or the hollows of his cheeks.

He takes his time, drying himself carefully with the fluffy white hotel towels and experimenting with Brian’s various lotions and moisturisers. His skin is pale and the bruises on his arms and chest stand out as ugly faded yellows and greens. His hair is back to light blond but it makes him seem even more washed-out. He feels like a ghost.

He concentrates on his appearance, trying to smooth out the deep purple circles under his eyes and brushing the stale taste of too many unknown mouths out of his own. He doesn’t think about what might be waiting for him in the next room.

There’s a pale terrycloth robe hanging on the back of the door and he slips it on, folding his own clothes neatly on the sideboard. There’s a small tab of E in the back pocket of his jeans and he swallows it quickly, watching his own expressionless face in the mirror.

-

When he finally exits the bathroom Brian’s naked on the bed and there’s a roll of hundred dollar bills on the nightstand. He’s too tired to care about whatever point Brian might be trying to prove.

“Three hundred for the night, right?” Brian says and Justin has the suspicion he might be quoting something. He takes off his robe.

“Five,” he corrects absently, making his way over to the bed, “but you might as well consider this repayment for the flight and everything.”

To Brian’s credit, his expression doesn’t even flicker. He pushes himself up lazily and smirks. Justin is strangely relieved to find the expression still goes straight to his dick. “Might as well start working for it then sunshine,” he drawls and pats the empty space beside him. Justin crawls into it without protest.

Kissing Brian is something familiar, something he never has to think too hard about. Brian’s lips are as soft as he remembers and the skin of his shoulders is just as warm and smooth. He moans lightly and presses closer, something comforting in the press of Brian’s cock against his stomach.

He thinks absently that he could stay kissing Brian like this forever. He doesn’t have to think with Brian’s tongue slick and wet against his, with the sharp pinch of Brian’s teeth on his lower lip sending a jagged shiver of pleasure-shock down his spine. Slowly, he pulls away from Brian’s mouth and Brian leans back on the bed, tugging Justin with him. The skin of Brian’s throat tastes like salt and clean sweat, and the angry brush of stubble feels electrifying against his lips. He bites down gently, drawing heated skin under his teeth slowly and soothing the small red marks with his tongue. Brian groans loudly and Justin hides a smile against his collarbone. 

He works his way down Brian’s chest with tongue and teeth and every moan feels like a small victory. Justin has no delusions that this isn’t a fight to be won. And he _will_ win. He has to.

Brian’s fingers press hard against his shoulder blades, kneading at the skin. He’s beautiful like this, maybe the most beautiful thing Justin’s ever seen, body flushed and breathing laboured, so close to falling out of control. “Justin-” he groans, and the shock of it is like a jolt to Justin’s entire body. He feels the lingering electrical tingle of the word everywhere. It steals his breath away.

Fingers move up to his hair and tug harshly. It should hurt, should snap him out of this haze, but it only drags him under further, the tangle of pleasure-pain clouding his brain as his mouth reaches Brian’s dick.

Brian’s hips arch of the bed; a raw, wet sound tearing from his throat as Justin’s fingers grip at the sweat-soaked skin of his thighs. He works Brian slowly; long, firm slide of tongue and gentle tease of teeth. It’s easy to fall back into old habits, the insistent sucking pressure he knows will make Brian’s whole body stiffen, a short, wet lick to the head that makes Brian cry out hoarse and close to broken. It tastes like every other cock he’s ever sucked; salt and sweat and skin, but it’s Brian and his scent surrounds him. Justin struggles to breathe, short, fast bursts of air escaping through his nose and echoing off Brian’s skin.

He’s not sure how long it’s been before Brian pulls away gasping. He tugs Justin up towards him and Justin feels loose and pliable, draped across Brian’s body, mouth moving leisurely against Brian’s own, warm and mesmerizing.

Brian rolls them, heavy form pushing Justin down into the soft, cool sheets as his fingers work gently down Justin’s side. He traces the grooves of Justin’s ribs and there’s something new in his eyes. They look more open than Justin has ever seen them.

He decides he doesn’t like what he sees and closes his eyes, concentrating on the damp heat of Brian’s lower back and the heavy need in his dick. Brian’s hands pull away and he hears the familiar squirt of lube and tear of foil before he feels fingers return to his ass, cool and slick.

It’s a well known pattern, the press of one finger, two fingers, three against his hole but he still bucks his hips, a moan catching somewhere in his throat. Brian’s lips are back against his and Justin’s hands slide up to his hair, feeling the heat of his scalp. Brian shifts, fingers smoothing over Justin’s hip, and his cock pressing hard against Justin’s entrance. Justin chokes on the breath caught in his throat and his stomach drops.

“Wait,” he says, voice broken and mouth on firm disconnect from his brain. “I- I don’t know if I’m clean.” His words have the effect of a metaphorical bucket of cold water. Brian pulls away before he can blink and Justin suddenly feels very exposed.

“You fucking idiot,” Brian hisses, and it would’ve felt better if he’d screamed it. He’s looking down at Justin now with disgust and something a lot like pity. Justin thinks he might be sick. “Why didn’t you at least--?”

Justin doesn’t really know what to say. “They pay more,” he blurts out, and it sounds so stupid now, “and sometimes I just… forget, you know?”

Brian doesn’t look like he could possibly know. He sighs like Justin is still that naive little kid he met over a year ago and Justin wants to scream at him. He wants to scream and hit and kiss and fuck and make it all go away so that he can be that little kid again and Brian can make everything feel better somehow. But he can’t do that anymore and Brian probably can’t either, so he just lies there and fights the urge to close his eyes and wish it all away. He’s shaking.

“Go to sleep,” Brian says in that gruff way he has when he might actually be feeling something, “we’ll talk about this later.” Justin hears the soft sound of Brian pulling off the unused condom and feels the gentle dip as he climbs back into the bed. Brian pulls the sheets over both of them, leaving a careful divide of space directly down the center of the mattress.

The horrible silence is only made worse by the memory of the moans only minutes before.

Brian falls asleep surprisingly quickly, but the cotton feels too cold against Justin’s bare legs and he stares up at the shadowed ceiling, trying to comfort himself with the familiar even sounds of Brian’s breathing.

He can’t ever remember feeling more alone.

 

Two am and his skin itches. It’s an all-over body itch, starting in his fingers and spreading right the way down to his toes.

He rolls over into yet another position and sighs. Next to him, Brian doesn’t move.

He counts off the reasons he should stay. He thinks of mom and Molly. College. A bed to come home to every night. Regular showers. Brian.

He can’t think of a reason to go. Except for the itch. 

The moment he slides out from beneath the sheets and his feet touch the carpet, he knows what he’s going to do.

Back in Pittsburgh he thought of his life as divided in two somewhere at seventeen. There was Pre-Brian and After-Brian. Pre-Brian involved Daphne and homework and large amounts of jerking off. After-Brian involved less virginity and rimming and naked guys and probably equal amounts of jerking off.

Now his life lies in three pieces. Pre-Brian, After-Brian and Manhattan. Just like before, there’s no going back.

He takes the money from the nightstand and doesn’t turn back at the door.

* * *

All mistakes are my own. Feedback is always appreciated :).


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